July 23, 2015

My first exposure to Azzedine Alaïa occurred when I was nothing more than a piccolo bambino back in the 1980s. My babysitter would park my stroller in a corner of the Michael Todd Room at Palladium and leave me with a book of energetic and whimsical Jean-Paul Goude photos to while away the time. There was Alaïa, the diminutive designer from Tunisia, popping out of a stack of boxes from his fashion boutique or pulling the ties of a corset as he rode one of his models like a jockey on an Arabian stallion.

A few years later it was all my fellow kindergarten students and I could talk about. In 1985 we snuck into a screening of the James Bond film “A View to a Kill” and swooned over Grace Jones in a lissome bandage dress by Alaïa. From that moment forward, I understood that some women were destined to be warriors—and Alaïa was born to dress them.

What a thrill it was to meet the designer, years later in the summer of 2002, in the courtyard of his headquarters in the Marais. I was the New York Editor of the wildly influential Dutch magazine and this was my first Paris Fashion Week party. Not that Azzedine was on the official schedule. He’s infamous for showing whenever and wherever he pleases. (He also does not advertise.) All he needs to do is blow a dog whistle and hundreds of fashion editors will instantly leap from their seats—whether it’s the front row at Chanel or a chamber pot—and run as fast as they can so they can witness with their own eyes what the master couturier has whipped up.

“Couture/Sculpture: Azzedine Alaïa in the History of Fashion,” which opened at the Galleria Borghese in Rome during AltaRoma, is nothing short of a triumph. Sixty-five Alaïa pieces, many of them re-made to stand tall under the galleries’ soaring ceilings, are juxtaposed with some of the world’s greatest Greek and Roman sculptures, important masterpieces by Canova and Bernini, and paintings by Caravaggio and the great Renaissance masters.

Wandering through the palatial rooms while taking in the works is a phantasmagoric experience; a double dose of Stendhal Syndrome. More than one visit is required to fully appreciate the way Alaïa carefully chose each design to complement the works of art they are displayed near. It’s a religious experience of draping, in fabric and in marble.

Heavenly beauty, divine couture.

Sensual, sculptural.

Alaïa re-made this dress in an elongated version to be displayed under the gallery's soaring ceiling. Grace Jones wore the original in the 1985 film "A View to a Kill."

Skeletal elegance.

The one and only Azzedine Alaïa at the press preview.

Ghost in the museo.

Alaïa and the Egyptian Room: the gods are smiling.

Sharkskin and seashells. I should borrow this for next year's Mermaid Parade.

Everyone was mad for the alligator jacket.

Gilded chain dress worn by—who else?—Tina Turner.

At the Rome Times Hotel before the Alaïa opening cocktail: me, Ari Seth Cohen of Advanced Style and Rebecca Voight of W magazine.

Legendary milliner Stephen Jones and Pashion magazine editor Susan Sabet. Mr. Jones and designer Alessandra Carta had an amusing exchange about the marijuana hat that Stephen designed in the '80s and that Alessandra has somewhere in storage. I begged her to find it and wear it to cocktails at Hotel Locarno, but no dice.

June 23, 2015

I've been attending the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island just about every year since the late '80s (when I was nothing more than a mere minnow). Even in this era of hyper gentrification, the event still maintains its extremely DIY creative energy and anti-corporate attitude. It's the perfect way to spend the solstice, welcoming the start of pagan summer—even if this year, the weather was a bit chilly and breezy.

At one point, things starting getting very Fellini-esque...

See what I mean?

Little Edie made a surprise visit to the boardwalk...her revolutionary costume of the day.

June 19, 2015

Elephantine Island is right across the Nile from my hotel, so I went there today to visit the Nubian people and take some photos. There are two Nubian villages on the island, Koti and Siou.

My friend Camille Paglia wrote to me yesterday and said, "It sounds like you're living in a 1940s movie!" And she's right, it really is like that here in Aswan. Everything isn't all neat and cookie-cutter for the tourists (well, except for my luxe hotel)...it's more like traveling back in the '40s, or at least the '60s. For example, when I went to catch the ferry to go to Elphantine Island, there was just a shabby pier and a few guys with old motor boats.

I ended up climbing into this boat since there seemed to be no official ferry in sight, and within minutes of puttering across the Nile, these kids in a homemade canoe grabbed onto the boat and hitched a ride--but less for a free ride, and more to catch my attention. At the top of their lungs they started singing, "Aloutte, gentille aloutte! Alouette, je te plumerai!" It was hilarious. I felt like Jimmy Stewart making his way through some French colony.

The chief of the Nubian village of Koti took me on a tour of the area.

A giant mango tree and baskets for gathering tomatoes from the community garden.

Facade of the tea house I visited.

The owner of the tea house insisted I photograph this alligator. I really thought it was going to jump out of the tank and bite my face off!

View from the terrace of the tea house.

I love donkeys! This was like being back in Fortaleza for fashion week.

Prayer time at the village mosque

The owner of the tea house. We talked for a long time. I wasn't always able to follow what he was saying, but it was interesting. For instance, when I asked him what he thought of President Morsi, he went on about why he likes him and then segued into people eating alligator meat. I think he was being allegorical.

May 13, 2014

I am shocked and saddened after finding out yesterday that beloved club doorman Derek Neen passed away last week. According to Michael Musto, he committed suicide in Vancouver, Canada where he moved a few years ago. He left NYC after Beige--the Tuesday gay night at Bowery Bar that ran for 17 years--closed in 2011. I knew Derek since the mid-90s when I attended Beige (and occasionally the Roxy where he also did the door) and then in 2005 I spent quite a bit of time with him, mostly at the doors of Beige and Roxy, to research my 2006 St. Martin's Press book Confessions From the Velvet Ropes.

Derek is one of the four doormen profiled in the book and I greatly enjoyed the time I spent with him. He made me laugh, he made me think, he inspired my writing and he made going out in NYC a wickedly fun experience--an era that is certainly gone forever from this now-corporatized city. We miss you Derek.

xxxGlenn Belverio

Excerpt from Confessions from the Velvet Ropes - my profile on Derek Neen:

They arrive in droves, emboldened with the kind of aggressive chutzpah that German soldiers possessed when they marched into Paris. Marc Jacobs bags swing menacingly like pistols and Gucci perfume hangs in the air like nerve gas as this phalanx of ersatz Carries, Samanthas and Mirandas halt before the velvet ropes. They have come to the Roxy to do what these sort of girls do when they are granted entrance into this sort of disco: Terrorize the bartenders with inappropriate drink orders, noisily invade the dance floor and hunt for potential captives. Their quarry: attractive, amusing, non-threatening men. Gays.

“All twenty of you are together?!” Derek Neen asks incredulously. “I’m sorry but tonight is for the boys. I really can’t let you in.” Derek lifts the rope that holds waiting guests at bay while a security team cohort lifts another rope which will allow the girlish junta to pass momentarily through the box, but only so they can exit onto the sidewalk from whence they came. The mob emits a series of disappointed bleats as they clip-clop past the ropes in their Manolo- and Jimmy Choo-shod feet. In the blink of an eye, the group has been transformed from a squadron of weekend warriors to herded barnyard animals. “There are other places you can go,” Derek shouts over the din, the velvet rope held aloft. “There are plenty of straight clubs that are more than happy to welcome the ladies.”

Derek has been the doorman for the Roxy’s Saturday night gay party for fifteen years. The forty-five-year-old Canadian also runs the ropes on the club’s non-gay Friday nights, which are often devoted to grand R&B music events. That night’s predominantly black crowd brings to the club a retro form of Harlem sophistication – men in zoot suits and fedoras, women in cocktail dresses and chinchilla stoles – which is in marked contrast to the Saturday night gay crowd’s sausage casing-tight tees and jeans, and various stages of ill-advised transvestism. In order to preserve the gay male vibe of this long-running party, one of Derek’s chores is to limit the number of women entering the club. “Tonight is only for the boys but I might let you in if you can come up with a good defense,” Derek, wearing a fox-like smile, tells two women.

“We came all the way from Long Island!” they plead.

“Long Island?!” Derek affects alarm. “Do you have your visas with you?” Stunned by this humorous sting of Manhattan jingoism, the girls fall silent. Derek dives directly into interrogation mode. “Did you know it was a gay night? What other clubs do you go to? Why did you come here?”

“My mom thinks I’m gay!” one girl blurts out, as if she is cracking under the pressure.

“Will you make out with another girl if I let you in?” Derek asks pointedly. The girl grimaces. Derek sends them packing. When another group of girls show up and are identified as Canadians by their accents, Derek subjects them to a pop quiz concerning their country’s history. “Who was the First Prime Minister of Canada?” Derek asks. “And who was the head of the Metis?” When the girls answer all of the questions correctly, Derek opens the ropes for them and the group bobbles excitedly into the club like winners on Jeopardy. “You’re so entertaining!” trills a gay man waiting in line, who is wearing a t-shirt that says DEFINE “GIRLFRIEND.”

“I like to keep things interesting for people who are waiting near the front of the line because they want to see things like that – it’s show business,” Derek is fond of saying. “Whether I’m quizzing people or telling jokes or chatting up stars, it’s a bit like being onstage….and also my job as a doorman is essentially my only ‘going-out’ life, so I do a lot of socializing in front of the club. I could be chatting with someone like John Norris from MTV or Carson from Queer Eye or minor or major European aristocracy, and I’ll talk just loud enough so the people who are waiting in line can get in on it, because I don’t want them to feel excluded…and the people I’m speaking to understand that, they know it’s a stage – they know they’re supposed to be on.”

Later on that night Hollywood fashion stylist Philip Bloch arrives, stands in front of the roped entrance reserved for VIPs and props himself up on the stanchions, waiting to be noticed. He is wearing a sleeveless mesh athletic shirt and a cocky expression that says “Hello? Here I am!” As Derek greets him warmly, the boys at the front of the line aim a rapid-fire series of questions at Philip concerning his recent E! channel appearances. “So Philip, how do these boys look? What’s the style diagnosis?” Philip makes a sour lemon face and then waves dismissively in their direction. “I’m off duty tonight,” he says before filling Derek in on his recent trip to Australia, much to the waiting boys’ delight.

Whereas Kenny Kenny’s early velvet rope days resembled Grand Guignol and Thomas Onorato’s door bitchery is often an exercise in twenty-first-century efficiency, Derek’s door-side manner is something akin to a vaudeville act. At his Tuesday night door gig, Beige – a long-running gay party at Bowery Bar – Derek tosses off corny one-liners as he edits a non-stop parade of fashionistas, hair and makeup artists, NYU students and nightlife diehards, with the latter receiving a sly “Good morning!” from him as they stride up at midnight. Women attired as if they’re female female impersonators enter undeterred while other ladies, who arrive on the arms of men who are in practice of posing as gay in order to secure entry, are stopped.

“Are you straight?” Derek asks a preppie-looking man who has shown up with a slender blonde. “No, I have a husband but he’s in Budapest,” the man replies. Derek emits a stagey Bronx cheer. “Budapest? That was no husband! If you have to pay for it, he’s not a real husband!” Derek cracks. Later, a Russian girl with a heavy accent arrives with two men but sans ID. DADDY’S GIRL is printed across her t-shirt in gold letters. “But I’m twenty-seven,” she insists.

“So where’s Daddy?” Derek asks.

“Daddy’s in Istanbul. He sells airplanes.”

“Sounds like Russian mafia to me! What do you do for a living?” he asks.

“I’m studying liberal arts at the New School,” she explains.

“What? You’re still in school at twenty-seven? Sounds more like the Nude School – that strip joint out in Brighton Beach!” Derek says, channeling Jackie Mason.

As the evening progresses, gaggles of friends and acquaintances have gathered in front of the door, filling Derek in on the details of recent trips to Paris, photo shoot gossip, relationship drama and fashion bulletins. There is a sense that the real party is happening outside – in Derek’s honor – rather than inside. At around one a.m. elderly Andy Warhol factory legend, Taylor Meade, hobbles up the front steps with his cane, his characteristic goofy grin lighting up the night. “Taylor!” Derek exclaims and the entire crowd of lingerers and line-waiters burst into applause and cheers. Taylor raises his cane above his head and basks in the glory. “Taylor has been coming here for eleven years and he always drinks for free,” Derek tells a friend. “And I even have the young people here trained to receive him in a manner that befits an icon. Everyone knows Taylor.”

Derek hails from a small city in British Columbia called Kamloops (First Nations word meaning “meeting of the waters”) and as a teenager migrated to the big city of Vancouver, where he received his unconventional education from “street kids, prostitutes and drag queens.” He soon became involved with an older lover – a rock ‘n’ roll and travel photographer – and moved to Hawaii with him where he began a career as an actor in TV ads. “I appeared in the first ever commercial for Sony Walkmans in 1979,” Derek relates. “I was playing air guitar with a tennis racket dressed in little tennis shorts.” After some TV gigs in Japan and seven years of traveling with his companion, Derek found himself single again and back in Vancouver wondering what to do next. After a stint as a bicycle messenger, Derek decided to move to New York after celebrating New Year’s Eve in that city at the end of 1988. “I moved there in the spring of ‘89 and went out every single night, dancing to house music at places like Mars and Boy Bar.” In the winter of 1989 Derek entered, and won, the Mr. Boy Bar contest. “The prize was $100 and a job at Boy Bar, which I really needed because I was running out of money. The choice was a bartending job or a doorman job. I knew that bartending was hard work, so I chose the door gig.”

He quickly learned “the ropes” from the club’s longtime doorman, Len Whitney, a video artist known for his penchant for outré leather outfits and codpieces. “Even though it was only $5 to get in, a lot of people were insulted if they were made to pay,” Derek remembers. “Len taught me which local artists, writers and performers got in for free and how to handle all the egos in a diplomatic way.” Another trick he learned was what to do when the police arrived.

“Boy Bar didn’t have a cabaret license, which meant no dancing, but people danced anyway. When the cops came by to check on that, I would push a button by the door that would kill the power to the turntables downstairs where Johnny Dynell was DJing. That’s when he knew to put on an Ella Fitzgerald record and by the time the police made it to the dance floor, everyone was lounging around, smoking cigarettes and enjoying Ella.” After Boy Bar closed, Derek had a brief dalliance working as a go-go boy at Mars and a club housed in an old Con Edison power plant called The Building. “I was thirty years old and I knew the go-go gig wasn’t a long-term plan and that’s when I realized the door job would become my niche career.”

Derek then accepted a job offer as the doorman for the Roxy. “New York was different then, things were more intense….you had people wandering the streets in outrageous outfits and in various stages of nudity, and there was a lot of bitchiness and elitism then. And the bitchiness and personal grudges were things we doormen projected onto fairly innocent club-goers at will….in a way, it seemed that people wanted to be abused,” Derek asserts.

“There were nights when things would get out of control, when people would spit on me and I would spit back at them…one night, some guy starting cursing me out and I chased him all the way to the West Side Highway and pushed his face in the snow and told him never to come back to the Roxy again and the whole line applauded. In those days, everything was a big show and doormen were expected to be dramatic. The security who worked with you expected it, they got off on defending you and being your praetorian guard. It’s that whole thing about how power corrupts – you’re out there in your little fiefdom, your twenty square feet of kingdom, and if you’re not self-reflective and conscious of trying to make everyone else feel good, you can start to project your insecurities on people and become abusive and mean.”

As his door reign at the Roxy continued on through the nineties, Derek began to feel discontented. “I was really unhappy with my job, really miserable, and I was hooked on pills: Vicodins, Percocets, Percodans….and I was smoking a lot of weed, doing a bump here and there to round out the recipe….so I was often high at work and it really became a problem.” The years of pill abuse caught up with him on Gay Pride 1997.

“I was at the door of the Roxy, there was a huge line stretching around the block, and suddenly I just collapsed on the ground. This big, Brazilian security guard lifted me up and held me in place. For the rest of the night I held onto him with one arm and opened the rope for people with the other. I got through that night but then I was bed-ridden for a month because my liver just gave out from all the pill abuse….I’m sure I had hepatitis as well. That’s when I decided I needed to clean up and find another way to approach my job.” His new approach involved getting to know club-goers on a deeper, more personal level. “It was no more ‘Hi honey, hey baby’, it was more really looking into people’s eyes, remembering things like who just broke up with whom, and who just got a new job and who was away for awhile, and really connecting with people. You can’t do that if you’re high.”

Derek wasn’t the only one who had cleaned up by the late nineties. The club scene was also being purged, with crackdowns by the Drug Enforcement Agency, which brought down an entire empire of clubs including The Limelight, Tunnel and Palladium. “Suddenly it was all about focusing on rules and regulations and not getting the club in trouble. We had to protect the liquor license because that’s the queen bee of any club. If you lose that, you lose the club and the employees lose their means of support. So, part of my job became making sure we kept the drug dealers out of the clubs.”

Naturally, this new crusade created animosity that went beyond mere spitting and bitchy repartee. “One time a crazy security guard was fired from the Roxy because we found out he was dealing drugs,” Derek recalls. “And one night, very late, he drove high-speed down Eighteenth Street the wrong way toward the Roxy and his car plowed through the velvet ropes and stanchions. I threw myself against the side of the building just in time and he was leaning out the window screaming, ‘DEREK YOU MOTHERFUCKER, I’M GONNA KILL YOU!’ And that was the one time I was rewarded by the club owner….he put $500 in my pocket at the end of the night.”

As he approaches his sixteenth year of door whoring, Derek is ready to move on. “I’m ready to leave the job….I’m not fed up, but I’m satiated. It’s been such a great ride and I feel very privileged and grateful. But the club world doesn’t really excite me anymore….like when Madonna performed at the club recently. I used to love hanging out with her in front of the club in the early nineties, but now it’s not such a big deal. I’d rather be on a quiet beach in Brazil with my partner – so that tells me I’m done. I’m approaching my final act but I have no idea what I’ll be doing next.”

March 14, 2014

I was in Rome again in January for various reasons: Diane Pernet's fashion film festival. AltaRoma fashion week, to write a story about the Hotel Locarno and to visit friends. Here is a roundup of all my stories:

December 29, 2013

Last February, at the suggestion of my friend Susan Sabet, editor of Cairo-based fashion magazine Pashion, I jetted off to Cairo to cover Susan's Cairo's Fashion Night at the First Mall of the Four Seasons Hotel. Of course I made the requisite trip out to see the Great Pyramids. Tourist numbers have been very low since the tumult that erupted in Cairo during the first anniversary of Mubarak's ouster, so my experience at the Pyramids was quite existential.

For years I've fantasized about visiting the Great Sphinx of Giza and I did find his gaze mildly terrifying.

"I am standing in the sun I wish that I could be a silent sphinx eternally. I don't want any past only want things which cannot last and I can't even cry though God knows how I try - a sphinx can never cry and sphinxes never die." - Amanda Lear, The Sphinx

During my stay in Cairo, my friends Ahmed and Daki of the jewelry brand Sabry Marouf took me on a whirlwind tour of Islamic Cairo aka Fatimid Cairo. It was definitely a trip into the past.

Ahmed took this photo of me, for some reason I was feeling sassy.

With Ahmed (pictured) and Daki for some traditional mint tea and sheesha pipe at al-Fishawi, the most famous ahwa in Cairo.

After we left Fatimid Cairo, we drove near to Tahrir Square and I jumped out of the Ahmed's car to take photos of this women's protest. They are protesting against the institutionalized sexism of the Muslim Brotherhood and their government-organized sexual assault. (They send teenage boys into the Square to sexually harrass women to discourage them from protesting.) Work it, sisters!

On another day, I had a very meditative visit at the Citadel of Saladin. This was my favorite mosque, because it has an understated elegance. It was completely empty save for a mullah who pointed out some details for me. Built in 1318, the Mosque of Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad ibn Qala'un is the only Mamluk (Egypt during the Middle Ages) work that Mohammed Ali didn't abolish.

Inside the walls of the Citadel.

An elegant gentlemen in the Al-Rifa'i Mosque, one of the "twin mosques" not far from the Citadel, where the Shah of Iran is entombed.

Susan Sabet, organizer of Cairo's Fashion Night, at the event at the First Mall in Giza. We sipped Egyptian champagne (which is actually quite good) and I met lots of interesting young designers and cosmopolitan Cairenes.

Ahmed and Daki of Sabry Marouf. They showed me their fantastic collection of neo-Pharaonic jewelry.

I work as a copywriter for Tiffany & Co. so it was fun to toast the Cairo boutique where I chatted with Hibba Bilal, the director of PR of the Four Seasons at the First Residence. I stayed at this luxe hotel for three nights--my room had a view of the Pyramids!

One of the craftsmen at the Azza Fahmy jewelry workshops outside of Cairo. Ms. Fahmy is the Middle East's leading jewelry designer and is known for breaking down barriers in design. In 1969, she became the first woman in Egypt to be permitted to train as an apprentice with the masters in Khan El Kahlili, Cairo's jewelry quarter.

After enjoying Cairo for 6 days (my visit to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities was a standout), I jetted down to Aswan, located on the most beautiful stretch of the Nile, in the middle of the golden Nubian Desert. This view is what I woke up to every morning as I stood on the terrace of my royal suite at the Sofitel Legends Old Cataract Hotel. Agatha Christie wrote Death on the Nile here. At night, the only sound one hears is the drumming of the Nubian tribes on Elephantine Island, which you can see in the photo above.

During my stay in Aswan, I took an idyllic cruise in a felucca on the Nile. We sailed past the Mausoleum of Aga Khan.

Moi and the Nile on my suite's terrace. To my left is the original building of the Old Cataract Hotel, now called "the Palace Wing."

When one winters in Aswan, it is absolutely essential to visit the mind-blowing Temples of Ramses II in Abu Simbel, near the border of Sudan. A 3-hour drive through the Nubian Desert is required to get there. Because of the drop in tourist numbers, my arrival at the temples was quite surreal--I was the only one there! Not even a guard. Just two black dogs languishing in the sun. (Lucky for me they were friendly dogs!)

When I told Camille Paglia about it, she remarked that I must have felt like a British archeologist discovering it for the first time in the 19th century! More accurately, I felt like I was in a Ray Harryhausen film! All it needed was a Bernard Herrmann soundtrack.

Inside the Temple of Ramses II

A charming building in one of the Nubian villages on Elephantine Island.

My hotel wasn't keen on the idea of me wandering around alone in Aswan's Fatimid Cemetery (which dates back to the 9th century AD), but I went anyway. The caretaker of the cemetery took me on a tour of the graves.

The pièce de résistance was this tomb of an important imam, decorated with hsbd-irty, or artificial lapis lazuli, which is considered humanity's first synthetic pigment. It was developed in ancient Egypt during the Fourth Dynasty, c.2575-2467 B.C., when it used to decorate the tombs of the Pharaohs.

When the caretaker showed me this blue-dusted tomb, I was struck with a jolt of déjà vu. I then realized I had visited this site in a dream a few years ago.

Little Egypt

In July, I flew to Rome to cover Alta Roma fashion week for Diane Pernet. One of the highlights was our exclusive tour of the ateliers where the costumes and sets for the Rome Opera are created, at the Circus Maximus.

Even the fake set for the Mouth of Truth knows I'm a big, fat liar.

Below the Roman Opera ateliers is an ancient temple of Mithras. Popular before the Christians drove it out around the 5th century, the cult of Mithras was an all-male cult comprised of working-class and military men. After a bull was slaughtered and sacrificed, the animal's blood would pour down like a waterfall from the ceiling. As an initiation rite, the strapping, naked young military men would bathe and frolic and wrestle around in the deluge of blood. Now that sounds like a party!

I ran into fashion designer Paola Balzano at the A.I. Artisanal Intelligence exhibit at the show-stopping Palazzo Altemps, home of Angelica Library which, starting in the 17th century, became the world's first lending library.

Inside the library, Paola's dresses are up on the catwalk in the background. The skull sculpture is by Davide Dormino.

Musician Diego Buongiorno and I at the A.I. exhibit. Diego's latest piece is The Bush, an innovative project that puts both music and narrative together, which he devised, wrote, composed, arranged and produced.

After attending the sensational Jean Paul Gaultier show at Santo Spirito in Sassia (a communion-wafer's throw from the Vatican), we were invited to a dinner in Monsieur Gaultier's honor by Italian Vogue at the breathtaking Galleria Borghese. Above is one of the museum's most famous sculptures, The Rape of Persephone by Bernini. It certainly was a delight to be able to wander through the galleries at night while the museum was closed to the public.

Reunited: me and journalist Rebecca Voight arriving at the dinner.

We Are a Photograph

My biggest thrill of the night was meeting disco goddess Amanda Lear. JP Gaultier created the costumes for her recent one-woman show in Paris. I've been a big fan of her music for years. In September I read her amazing memoir, My Life with Dali. It is absolutely the best book to read while on holiday.

One of the guests at the dinner was Simone Valsecchi. A true renaissance man, Simone has collaborated with Jean Paul Gaultier, Peter Greenway, Gianfranco Ferre and others and works as a stylist and also curator and collector of museum-quality dresses starting from the 7th century. He was a lender to the Museo Fortuny for the exhibit "Diana Vreeland After Diana Vreeland."

It was fun to see Susan Sabet again and we discussed the situation in Egypt at length during dinner.

Sisters Are Doing it For Themselves--and God

On another day, I was treated to a bespoke, hisory-laden tour of Medieval Rome by Roam Around Rome, a boutique tour company. Our first stop was the Basilica of Santi Quattro Coronati--the 4 Holy Crowned Martyrs.

The Basilica's hidden Romanesque cloister.

Paolo and Antonio of Roam Around Rome.

Ceiling of the Basilica di San Clemente, founded in the 4th century.

One of the main reasons to come to Rome, it goes without saying, is the food.

(She's In A) Bad Mood

On my last night in Rome I attended the opening of the new Ermanno Scervino boutique. Asia Argento, whom I adore, was there promoting her album Total Entropy.

Before Asia arrived at the party in a burst of glorious punk-rock impudence, as if she had been shot from a cannon, the soiree was a rather soigné affair. Men in expensive suits and women dressed as if they had raided Halson's closet floated in circles around the crowded room through champagne bubbles and a DJ set of fabulously louche '70s disco. Such a refreshing change from the typical New York fashion party, where douchey faux-hemian "DJs" try and fail to spin their way out of a wet reclaimed hemp paper bag...and everyone is dressed like they're competing in a Chloe Sevigny costume challenge.

The DJ booth at the party which doubled as Asia's stage.

In New York we have a plethora of bland, generic Duane Reades. Rome has this. (Located next to Leon's Place, the official hotel of Alta Roma this season.)

Sunset at the Temple of Vesta.

I always go to Europe for holiday in September and this time around I went to Paris to visit friends. Frédéric lives in a glamorous penthouse with a vast terrace that overlooks the Eiffel Tower. I offered to make us some of my world-famous Belgronis™ but since Frédéric had limited spirit options, we went into War-time rationing mode. We made do with some gin and red vermouth. Since he didn't have a proper cocktail shaker, I had to mix the cocktails in a wine decanter with a swan-like neck. Not easy to get the ice cubes in there! But we ended on a high note by drinking my Belgronis™ from Fréd's Christian Dior crystal tumblers.

The view from Fréd's terrace at night.

I stayed for two glorious nights at the Hôtel de NELL in the center of Paris. The star of my room was a Japanese bathtub carved out of a single block of raw marble, bathed in natural light. The tray, seat and footstool are made from the lightest Oregon myrtlewood. I thought the seat was a bit strange but then again, I've never taken a bath in Japan!

I dined in the NELL's formidable restaurant, La Régalade Conservatoire, with Rebecca Voight. I chose as my main the scorpion fish fillet cooked in a bouillabaisse with snow peas and shaved fennel. Supèrbe!

Meanwhile, at the Folies Bergère the gilded tuchas of the iconic Art Deco can-can dancer was being polished for maximum shine.

Because it's just not a trip to Paris unless you drink Champagne with Diane Pernet at Café de Flore on the Rive Gauche.

Diane & Akiko Hamaoka, the Mayor of the Marais. And Lemon!

Après Champagne, Diane and I embarked on a magical mystery tour of Paris with Akiko. One of our stops, L'Hotel, was where Oscar Wilde uttered his (disputed) last words, "These curtains and I have been fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go" or "Either this wallpaper goes or I go." Or, more likely, "WHAT a DUMP!"

We passed by the majestic Tour Saint Jacques and Diane was amazed that she actually walked through tourist-y Les Halles, where she was barraged with gawking gasps and boorish commentary. But Diane is stoic, as am I, so it rolled off her like water on a duck's back. And we had a good laugh and exercise.

I think this might be how the day started out: the healthiest vegetarian lunch you can possibly imagine at The Tuck Shop. This zucchini soup rocked my world.

The divine Puurple Rain! She works hard for the money at the TUCK SHOP (which she co-owns)! Bringing vegetarian delights to the Croque Madame-stifled masses....

On my last day in Paris, I had lunch with the delightful Angélique Bosio, director of the terrific documentary on Bruce LaBruce, The Advocate for Fagdom. I (and my alter ego) appear in the film and Angélique interviewed me for it in 2009 when I was staying in an apartment in Pigalle.

See if you can guess which one is moi in this trailer:

After my high-end stay at the Hôtel de NELL, I schlepped my cookies up to Montmartre and checked into this very homey bohemian flat that was discretely tucked away in the Passage de Abbesses. Backstage photographer Sonny Vandevelde turned me onto it.

Renting an apartment means having your own kitchen to make dinner: salad, baguette and cheese from the fromagerie around the corner. Rich and perfect morbier and pesto gouda which I only bought because of the color (the pesto flavor was too overwhelming.)

One day I had brunch with the boys--fashion designer Teddy Parra and his partner, the actor Jean-Luc Bertin--in Le Marais. I paid a visit to Teddy's boutique--where he designs and produces splendid made-to-measure men's and women's clothing--and this book was displayed in the salon. Le bulge seems to upstage everthing else in the photo.

Dali in Montmartre

I went to my friend Nancy's favorite Moroccan restaurant and on the way back I of course had to take a photo of Sacré-Cœur Basilica, or "the giant baby bottle for angels" as one anonymous poet once put it.

After Paris, I jetted over to Vienna to meet up with my friend Carole Pope and to attend MQ Vienna Fashion Week.

Carole and I paid a visit to the atelier of Austrian couturier Susanne Bisovsky and it was quite a treat!

Susanne's enviable high-ceilinged kitchen is a riot of cookie tins collected from flea markets all over the universe.

After our atelier visit, Carole Pope and I sank into some sublime apple strudel at my favorite cafe. Yes, dolls...this is MY joint in Vienna.

The cafe is tucked away behind Vienna's famed opera house.

On another day, Carole and I were treated to a rather grand vegetarian lunch at Tian in the center of Vienna. The multi-course meal included this "tea" of tomatoes and basil that was simmered in a Japanese coffee pot.

The dizzying array of dishes at Tian kept soaring higher and higher to new artistic heights. While this salad resembles a Cubist painting, it's meant to mimic a game of Tetris. Bravissimo!

December 19, 2013

The top of my tree: Lou Reed portrait by Marco Santaniello, Waiting for the Man ball ornament by Sameer Reddy (detail later on this post) and a Nico Christmas by Isabel Hernandez.

Dear Venii and Penii in furs,

Last Saturday was THE social event of the season: my annual tree-trimming party. To honour the passing of Lou Reed I chose the theme, "Lou Reed & the Velvet Underground."

Even though there was a heavy snowstorm, followed by an intense ice storm, raging that night, a large group of diehards tromped over to my apartment with ornaments to enjoy some of my special Belgronis™, bubbly and my signature canapes.

My legendary radis farcis au chèvre and my favorite Champagne.

I was absolute obsessed with this Velvet Underground tribute ornament made by Joy Szilagyi and Carlota Gurascier. Andy's name is stencilled exactly how it appears on the cover of the Velvet Underground & Nico album.

But even more miraculously was how she painted the other side to look exactly like Warhol's banana. And even though this is a real banana (I think!) it is much heavier and denser than an ordinary bananan and the skin feels like it's made from fine Italian leather. I want to know what she did to it!

Me and Nancy flanked by the world-famous Rosenberg Twins, Alan and Charles.

When the Rosenbergs arrived, I whipped out my copy of Amy Arbus' photography book which features this photo of the Twins from the early '80s.

Mohamad and his version of the V.U. banana.

Helen, Susan and my friend Marie whom I hadn't seen in 10 years. She entertained us with hilarious stories.

The legends of New York: Nancy Stout, Adrian Milton, Patrick Lehman and Brian Butterick aka Hattie Hathaway of Pyramid Club and Jackie 60 fame. There were no Emily Post readings but Hattie brought his signature downtown New York realness.

There were a few people I forgot to photograph (I was too busy serving prosecco!), like DJ Tennesse who brought some terrific Xmas song CDs that he compiled. Tennessee used to DJ at the Pyramid Club.

New York's most important dandy, Patrick McDonald arrived late--and it was worth the wait! I was feeling a bit boozy by this hour.

Yuen attempts to confiscate Sameer's controversial ornament.

The Rosenberg's draped a PUNQUE garland on my tree.

Hattie also donated a Warholian banana.

Jonny Steele impressively handmade this wooden syringe!

As an homage to Mo Tucker, Nancy brought this beautiful metal drum kit.

Because Diane Pernet could not be at my party (she's in Paris, but I will see her in Rome next month), I made this ornament out of a photo of her sitting in my kitchen when I gave a party for her in 2008. She is next to Suzanne's hot dog ornament (which was from last year's '70s NYC theme) and it's an inside joke why I paired it with Diane.

It is now a yearly tradition for Mark to hang one of his empty prescription bottles on my tree.

This ornamanent didn't make it to my tree last year (for '70s NYC theme) so it's featured now: a homemade Saturday Night Fever ornamanent sent by Penny Saranteas.

Writer and enfant terrible Bruce Benderson was feeling under the weather and didn't make it to the party--but this ornamanent is coming soon to my tree: a handmade syringe homage to Syracuse. Bruce and Lou were both from there.

Artist Scott Neary, who was also down with a cold, made this Candy Darling Cane. It will arrive on my tree soon.

My cousin Kathy Garrigan was snowed-in in Conn. so she sent me a photo of her ingenious homage to Venus in Furs: a Venus de Milo salt shaker in a Barbie fur coat!

I love this little star and you can see the ghost of Sharon Tate hovering in the background.

The party got VERY wild later on...thanks to Mo's now-infamous dou-dou shots, a Lebanese speciality. Tequila and hot sauce garnished with an olive. We had more than a few of them. Here he is with Cecilia and Mac.

October 27, 2013

I took my September holiday in Paris this year to visit Diane Pernet and other friends and then onwards to Vienna for MQ Vienna Fashion Week 2013. Here is a roundup of my stories from A Shaded View on Fashion:

August 14, 2013

Last month, I was in the glorious city of Rome--back after a 3-year absence--to cover the Alta Roma fashion week for A Shaded View on Fashion and partake of the city's myriad earthly and heavenly delights. Live! Live! Live! as Mame Dennis was fond of saying. Here is a round-up of my stories from the Eternal City on Diane Pernet's site: